


Skylark

by fresne



Category: 1602
Genre: Cat1, F/M, Yuletide, challenge:New Year Resolutions, recipient:penknife
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-31
Updated: 2005-05-31
Packaged: 2017-10-09 20:19:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/91197
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/pseuds/fresne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A dusty moment in the class room, Angel dreams of the dawn. Or Idylls of an Angel.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Skylark

**Author's Note:**

> [Podcast](http://lifeamgood.com/podcasts/pod_skylark.mp3)  
> The following inspiration for this work and inspiration for my dialogue, where I am not directly quoting, because apt quotes are cool:  
> Neil Gaimain, 1602

He sits near the window and looks at the sky. It's red and green and shivers like the dawn. It whispers to him. He could slip out the window. Smash the glass and fall into the breeze.

He won't.

Instead, his wings drape like swan arms over the back of his chair, but there is no one to sew him a nettle shirt into normal. Whatever that is. He has always lacked the tool and chart to track it.

"Perhaps young Master Werner would like to explain the significance of Sir Mordred's death via Arthur's spear rather than the quick smote of his blade?" Master McCoy swings upside down and topsy turvy by one foot from a ceiling rafter. Morte D'Arthur is splayed in one vast gnarled oak hand.

"What?" says Angel, "Uh, er..." his wings flutter and clutch close.

Scottius Summerisle smirks beneath his ruby band.

Angel can feel the flush rise up his tunic into his cheeks, always fair to rise to apple hue.

Master Grey, green eyes slant and serious, smiles and Angel's flush, fair redoubles. A place to be himself and no more to hide what he is. Whatever that is.

He stutters, "I don't see why we're here studying this." Angel forces his wings still and downy full, "Not like it'll help us escape when the good folk come to run the witchbreed from their hills."

"Ha, and who cleft your angel's foot and set the mermaids singing?" says Robert Trefusis, lounging with feet propped on a low stool.

McCoy drops to the floor with a boom and shakes the dust motes dancing, "We study because it is indeed a marvelous bondage, to become servants to one tongue for learning's sake the most of our time, with loss of most time," McCoy paces the tiny room crowded with its spattering of the supposed sons of Gentlefolk. He looms and leans over Angel and says, "Whereas we have the same very treasure in our own tongue with the gain of more time? Our own bearing the joyful title of our liberty and freedom. I love Rome, but London better," McCoy skips up a wall and leaps over John Grey, "I favor Italy, but England more; I honor the Latin, but worship the English." McCoy holds his book up close to his nose and inhales, the pages flutter, "We learn because as Castiglione would teach in us in his book of the Courtier that the greatest of all skills is sprezzatura. Or as we say in our poor-mongrel-mother-beloved tongue that is English...nonchalance, which we gain not by seeming to be knowledgeable, but by being so. And thus are free to escape not just with bodies but with minds. Omnia mutantur, nos et mutamur in illis. All things change, and we change with them, but only if we grant ourselves the tools to do so."

"I'm sorry I asked," says Angel.

McCoy grins and turns. "Now then since Master Summerisle would smile at the question, perhaps he would care to lesson us in the answer," says McCoy, who places the book before the scowling youth and points to a printed line on a page with a rough finger.

Now it is Angel's time to smile, for past the initial salvation from the Inquisition's fire, more Master Javier's doing than Scottius', the surly boy has not done much to endear himself with his growls every time Angel chances to smile at Master Grey.

Angel smiles at Master Grey, who does not speak much, but can float a bit.

John Grey glances quickly at Scottius and Angel and says, "I...I think that, well...the spear is described as thirsty for slaughter. It gets left on the battlefield, but the sword Excalibur returns to the Lady of the Lake. The spear is just thirsty, while the Excalibur is quenched. It is the weapon of the rex quondam, rexque futurus, the once and future king. Arthur dies, but...he's not going to stay dead. He may return at any time to win the Holy Cross. The symbol of rebirth."

Robert Trefusis laughs and says, "Always the peacemaker Jean. What next, will you give them both the kiss of peace?"

John Grey blushes and ducks his narrow face down. His red hair falls forward in streaks.

Scottius somehow glares at Robert from beneath his ruby shades. Angel is not sure how Scottius manages this without eyes to be seen, but he does.

Robert grins and blows a puff of cool breath to hang and dissolve in the air.

"Master Trefusis, have you a better explanation?" says McCoy.

Robert sketches a cross in the air with his finger; it glistens a moment before fading. "Oh, the sword is the cross and the spear is the...spear and the grail is the cup of milk in which Nature washed her hands to make snow and Mordred is just a bit of a prat," he says. Robert puts his hands behind his head and says, "Now for stories of adventure and battles, I prefer the Romance of Silence. Silentia dressed as Silentius. Don't you agree Jean?"

"Leave the...lad alone boy," says McCoy, "You're too quick to jest." McCoy jumped back up to the ceiling to swing again upside down and turvy tospy, "Master Grey, if you would do us the honor of reading aloud the next part of the deaths of Lancelot and Guinevere."

Master Grey nods quickly and begins to read.

John Grey's soft boy's voice stumbles the words in a rush of stops and starts. Angel's mind wanders from Amesbury Abbey where the lovers do not quite meet again before they die and for all the weeping and dolor, they stay dead. Angel glances out the window at the widening sky. There are song birds flying swift and formation bound up from the green fields towards the low trees in the distance. They haven't quite the same allure as companions as once they did.

Angel smiles at Master Grey, who does not speak much and therefore stumbles over words, but can float a bit. Perhaps tomorrow morning, they will float silently together on the warm updrafts and leave secrets behind.

Angel does not look out the window again. His gaze is on red hair and green eyes, like a blushing dawn and much closer to hand.

**Author's Note:**

> If after reading my fiction here, you would like to read more about me and my writing check out my profile.


End file.
